“This is the slavery of the veiled life. Aunt Jane had her quiet moments. Why can’t you let it be?’ Gerald grinned at him. I——” Then he stopped short, for he began to remember things. They’re too free for their innocence or too innocent for their freedom. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. ’ ‘Then you shall no longer do so.
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